By the time you reaches the apartment, evening has already fallen.
The hallway outside the door is silent, but inside, voices are rising.
She’s still adjusting the strap of her bag when she hears one of them through the door — a low, steady, measured voice.
“We’re giving her space.”
Immediately, another voice chimes in — bright, tinged with amusement.
“Space, huh? That’ll last maybe five minutes.”
A third voice cuts in, calmer and softer.
“She just went through a breakup. Don’t push her.”
Then a fourth voice, deeper, rougher, and quieter than the rest:
“If she’s living here, we don’t make her life harder. That’s all.”
A moment of silence passes.
Then the first voice sounds again — as even as before.
“She’s under this roof now. That means she gets respect, personal space, and no one turns this place into a circus.”
The apartment falls silent.
Too quiet.
Someone on the other side has clearly noticed that there’s now a person at the door who’s heard all of it.
There’s a click of the lock.
The door opens.
The man before her is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and such a composed expression that the faint smoke from a cigarette still barely visible behind him only adds to his air of mystery.
His gaze briefly drops to her suitcase, then returns to her face.
“you?”
— he asks.
Behind him, the apartment opens up in warm light, revealing a couch, a TV, a game console, and three more men who, it seems, were just discussing her.
The stranger at the door steps aside.
“I’m Bram. Come in.”
A pause.
Then, with a barely noticeable shift in his expression:
“Looks like you’ve already learned the rules of this house.”